Away in the Woods
by wrldpossibility
Summary: Beckett and Castle are banished to her father's cabin in the woods. Alone. For days. Make of that what you will.
1. Chapter 1

Away in the Woods

Chapter 1

In Kate Beckett's experience, cops can pretty much count on not counting on anything. Even the most carefully made plans are fair game. One minute, she's at her desk, filing the last of her paperwork for the day and looking forward to a quiet apartment, a glass of merlot, and maybe even a good book. The next, the promise of a relaxing evening is whisked out from under her as swiftly as she'd scissor kicked her assailant earlier that day.

As with most things which lead to a colossal pain in her ass, it had started with:

"Beckett! Mr. Castle! My office. Now."

They'd filed in like petulant children, Castle taking the lead, Kate determined not to flinch as the door slammed shut behind them. A file lay open on Gates' desk, and she was still returning the phone to its cradle as they approached her desk.

Apparently, the case Kate thought they'd closed is anything but. Gates gets straight to the point. "Our perp has an accomplice. More than one, in fact."

"Sir?"

"This thing goes deeper than we knew. A whole crime ring is connected, and—" she looks pointedly from Kate to Castle and then back again—"they've made you. _Both_ of you. At the arrest today."

"Where we took out our guy," Kate clarifies. "The one who murdered our vic." She lays a healthy emphasis on _murdered_.

Gates looks unimpressed. "Mmmhmm. So Robbery and Vice have stepped in to take over the case, now that, as you so helpfully point out, Detective, the pesky murder part is out of the way. But they'd appreciate you not scaring the accomplices off, what with your shiny mugs that can identify them. So the two of you will need to make yourself scarce."

They both speak at once.

"Sir?"

"What's that now?"

Gates radiates impatience. "Just for a few days. Disappear. Preferably out of town." She dismisses them with a wave of one hand.

There's no way Kate's not standing her ground. "Sir, I can't just—"

"Of course you can." Gates nods toward Castle. "_With_ him. I'll sleep better knowing you two have each other's backs." She makes a show of looking at her watch. "Starting...now. Have a place in mind?"

Kate stares stubbornly at Gates, but out of the corner of her eye, she can see Castle shuffling nervously from foot to foot. "We could head to my house in the Hamptons…"

Immediately, Gates scoffs. "The one that was featured just last month in a two-page Vanity Fair spread? Good idea. I can see why you're considered such a valuable asset around here, Mr. Castle, what with those street smarts."

Kate bites her lip, opens her mouth to speak, hesitates, sighs, and then says, "I know where we can go." She turns to the door, then looks back over her shoulder for Castle. Realizing she looks just as irritable as Gates, she reverses the frown on her face. "You coming?"

It's a four hour drive from the city to her father's cabin. _"Three hours if we take my Porsche,"_ Castle had countered, and dammit, she'd have been tempted had the stupid thing not been too conspicuous. Instead, they'd be taking an unmarked, Kate at the wheel. Picking him up at the curb outside his loft, she pops the trunk to stow a ridiculously oversized Forzieri suitcase. He hefts it in with a grunt, then raises an eyebrow at her overnight-sized duffel, suddenly dwarfed beside the Italian leather handcrafted monstrosity.

"What?" she challenges.

He smirks. "Nothing. You want to run out of clothes, that's on you." He'd pauses, musing. "Or, perhaps more accurately, _not_…" He catches the look on her face and trails off. "On…you. Hey, should we grab something to go? It's _on_ me." He grins at her.

In lieu of an answer, she slides behind the wheel and adjusts her mirror before easing into SoHo traffic. The dashboard clock glows 8:15 pm, and her eyes are already trying to close.

"Well sor-rrry," Castle's saying, drawing the word into two whiny syllables. "No reason not to turn this situation to our advantage, Detective Beckett."

Two minutes in, and she already wants to strangle him.

Two _hours_ in, and Kate's fighting sleep at the wheel. It's nearing 10 pm, and to say it's been a full day already would be an understatement. Beside her, Castle's eyes are closed, his head resting on the seat back. In the light of the dash, his profile radiates afterglow from the hostage standoff is still a prominent, if silent, partner in Kate's thoughts, and she finds herself staring at the angle of his jaw before jerking her eyes back to the dark road. Time to wake him up.

"So," she says. "I'm curious. How would Jameson Rook 'turn this situation to his advantage'?"

He smiles and lifts his head. "That depends. Is he riding shotgun with Nikki Heat or Kate Beckett?"

As with everything these days, his casual comment hits too close to home. She goes on the offensive. "Aren't they one and the same, Castle?"

He looks genuinely taken aback. "Not at all." She feels a pang of regret for unnecessarily taking a jab. Pushing back, even when Castle's not pushing, has become a bad habit. "You know that," he chastises. He mumbles the rest into the direction of the side window. "If you didn't, there's no way I would have gotten three books in."

She smiles. This is true.

Sometime past 11 pm, they pull off I-87 and into the Quik Kart parking lot outside High Peak, New York. "We'll need to pick up some groceries," she says. "There's next to no food in the house. I can vouch for that."

Castle is looking at her intently as he unsnaps his seatbelt. "That's right. You were probably the last one staying at the cabin, weren't you?"

She doesn't look at him as she answers, busying herself locking the car and stretching. "I doubt my dad's had time to stop by since." She's not entirely sure how she feels about bringing him here, to the epicenter of so much intensely personal pain and healing, but it's too late now. She supposes it's fitting that when Gates requested a place for her to go and hide, she thought first of this one. She gestures to him to follow her toward the market. "He usually spends every autumn weekend up here, but since I've been back, he's been entirely too busy checking in on me at my apartment."

Castle falls into step beside her. "He loves you."

It's a casual observation, and a fair one, but something in the way he says it makes her risk a quick glance his way. "I know."

Inside the market, the single cashier at the only lit check stand nods at them, then resumes his browsing of a copy of US Weekly. They make short work of it, cruising up and down the empty aisles for bread, cereal, and milk, and brie, water crackers, and filet mignon, respectively. It's a curiously intimate experience, divvying up their scrawled list, deciding what they might eat—together—for breakfast tomorrow, lunch, dinner, then likely breakfast again after that. Kate finds herself caught in a momentary panic: what will that look like, that day-after-tomorrow breakfast across her dad's worn kitchen table from Castle?

_He_ seems much more at ease. After debating over jumbo or chocolate swirl marshmallows (Your cabin _does_ have a fireplace, doesn't it?), he tosses both packages in the cart and steers it toward the Hershey bars.

"It's not a campout, Castle."

"Oh, indulge a city boy, will you?"

She takes the list from his hand, smiling. "What's left?"

"Drinks. What would you like?" His tone shifts from boyish delight to playful mockery in that way of his that leaves her hanging on his every word. "Or, should I say, what would Nikki like, since it's all the same to you?"

"You know the answer to that." He looks puzzled, but retains the smirk. She looks at him significantly. "Tequila and limes, of course." She watches as his face rearranges itself, then leans in closer, until she's whispering in his ear. "Aisle four."

Something about the way Castle stumbles away causes her to keep smiling long after the joke is over.

She can't quite believe it when a trio of limes roll past her along the conveyor belt at check out, followed by two bottles of tequila. And salt. And then several bottles of chardonnay and a bottle of scotch. She raises an eyebrow.

"It's not a frat party, either."

By the time they're back in the car, they only have a dozen miles to go. These are slow going though, along single-lane roads that wind through the dark woods on either side of them, twisting and dipping in ways Kate remembers used to make her stomach lurch as a child. She's not sure why, but she tells Castle this.

"Have you always come here?" he asks.

"Since I can remember." She smiles. "The property used to be nothing more than a hunting shelter on ten acres to the east of the lake, but after I was born, my mom said she'd stop coming if my dad didn't improve upon it."

Castle laughs lightly. The sound is comforting somehow, rattling around in the dark of the car interior. "The power of a woman putting her foot down. Nothing like it in the world."

"Must have worked. I don't remember a time when it wasn't a cozy escape by the lake."

"Sounds nice."

She nods, even though she's not sure he can see her in the dark. She stares at the black ribbon of road, then beyond and beside it, where the shadows of trees blur past. "Some of my happiest memories are here."

There's a pause while Castle mulls this over, but when he answers her, his voice is still light. "I'll try not to ruin it."

They pull up just after midnight, the white Crown Vic's tires crunching the gravel of the quarter mile driveway at a slow and grinding pace. The headlights illuminate the single-story cabin as Kate shifts into park, shining a duel spotlight on the paneled wood exterior with slanted roof and planter boxes—long empty—in the windows fitted on each side of the front door.

For a moment, they both sit in the car, studying the dark structure. "You don't think...we don't need to worry about any surprises, do we?" Castle asks.

Kate shakes her head. "We haven't been tailed. And this place is just about as off the grid as they come."

All the same, she reaches for her Sig under her seat and cocks it before stepping out of the car. Castle grabs a Maglite and flanks her shoulder. He holds the light aloft as she fits the key into the standard lock and jiggles it back and forth (it's always stiff) and then nudges one shoulder into the door to slide it open (it always sticks).

Inside, the beam of the Mag is the only break in the complete darkness. It bounces over a pair of comfortably worn couches facing a massive stone fireplace as Kate slides her hand along the wall, feeling for the switch. She finds it, and they both release a breath as yellow light floods the room.

Kate lowers her Sig, but rests it, at the ready, against her thigh while crossing the main room to the narrow, wood-paneled hallway beyond it, Castle's flashlight leading the way. They clear the bedroom, the bathroom, and the small kitchen, then Kate flips the back porch light to briefly glance at the tiny deck, with its picnic table and chairs beside her dad's ancient BBQ, now covered for the winter.

Satisfied, she flips the light back off, and they return to the living room, where she holsters the Sig and breathes in deeply of the familiar, musty air she associates with weekend escape, and more recently, convalescence. Castle switches the Maglite off and sets it on a side table, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he crosses the room to investigate the darkened fireplace. It's cold in the room; Kate can see his breath in the air when he speaks.

"It's official," he says cheerfully. "We're alone."


	2. Chapter 2

Castle wakes to a slant of sunlight angling through the front cabin window to target him with laser-like precision. He squeezes his eyes shut again in protest, throwing one arm over his face and flipping over on the couch to burrow more deeply under the heavy wool blanket. He lies there for a moment, trying to decide what time it is (and trying to ascertain which cushion of the ancient couch is responsible for the ache in his back).

They'd pretty much crashed as soon as they'd brought in the supplies and suitcases last night; he'd half-wanted to flip a coin for the sole bedroom, but Beckett had shamed him into the show of chivalry that was to blame for his current lumbar situation before he could suggest it. It had been almost one am, after all, and he thinks she'd been glad for the excuse; it had felt strange to both of them, standing there staring at each other without a case to bounce off one another.

It's uncannily quiet in the cabin-he misses the city already-but from somewhere outside, he can hear a rhythmic _thump, thump, whack...thump, thump whack_ that he can't place. He lies there another minute, trying to figure out its source (crazy country living!) then gives up, throwing back the blanket (best to rip it off like a Band-Aid) and shifting his feet to the rough wooden floor.

It's cold in the room (the fire they'd made in the grate had clearly petered out in the last few hours) but not freezing. He digs the Stanford University sweatshirt out of his suitcase (might as well get some use out of it here, since he can't wear it in Alexis' presence anymore), but doesn't bother to change out of the gym pants he'd pulled on before settling into his makeshift bed.

He reignites the fire, then glances toward the bedroom. The door is ajar, which, if he's been paying any attention to NYPD procedure at all, means he's entitled to a glance without being accused of an unlawful search. It's empty, though the bed's still unmade. He studies the disheveled sheets longer than necessary to observe that Beckett's no longer in them, then returns to the living room, where the distant _thump, thump, whack_ now sounds more like _whack, thump, smack_.

He opens the front door, and follows the sound around the side of the cabin, where Kate's beating on a punching bag with an intensity most people reserve for their worst enemy. Her back's to him, earbuds evidently drowning out the sound of his approach as she assaults the heavy black canvas in a series of kicks, jabs, and right hooks, ducking as it swings wildly back at her in response to each attack. She's breathing hard, each exhalation a visible cloud of steam in the air, and every inch of her skin not covered in spandex shines with sweat. He can admit it: he stands there, staring, until he can't take it anymore; surely it isn't healthy for his heart rate to ratchet up this high this early in the morning. Clearing his throat, he eases into her line of view, though not too close. He's not sure his reflexes are up to the task.

"What'd it ever do to you?" he asks loudly.

She spins toward the sound of his voice, and he takes a small measure of satisfaction in catching her off-guard. She covers her surprise quickly with a smile. "Hey, Castle."

"Morning workout?" He's trying very hard to keep his eyes off the taut skin of her torso, but in the bright fall sunlight, she's positively gleaming.

"Kind of a habit I got into, when I was here last summer. To get back in shape."

Since he can't hide the naked admiration all over his face, he figures there's no point in pretense. "Mission accomplished, I'd say."

This time, her smile's a little less steady as she reaches down for a bottle of water and the discarded yoga tee on the ground. When she rises, she's standing close enough for him to notice the surgically precise edge of her scar running from one side of her clavicle to disappear under the fabric of her sports bra. She catches him looking at it just as he's struggling to recover from the sharp stab of pain it brings to his own chest, and her smile dies on her face.

She tugs the top over her head and drains the water bottle in one long drink. "Should we go inside?"

He offers to start breakfast while she takes a shower. He waits until he hears the water running through the pipes, then digs through the ancient, rounded fridge for the ingredients they'd bought for omelets. By the time Beckett emerges from the hallway in jeans and a sweater, toweling her wet hair, the entire cabin smells like bell peppers and onions and bacon. Maybe it can be accredited to the promise of food, but she doesn't seem to be holding a grudge.

"Forgot a blow dryer," she says.

He flips the egg in the pan, then points with the spatula in the direction of his suitcase. "I brought mine."

"You..." He can tell she's fighting a smirk. "Seriously?"

"Are my impeccable grooming habits going to be a problem for you, housemate?" When she has no answer, he adds, "That's what I thought." He opens a cupboard, searching for plates. "Grab the juice?"

"Sure but, can I have my coffee first?" He turns from his plate search to find her looking at him expectantly.

He frowns. "I thought you got the coffee."

"Why would _I_ get the coffee?" She looks genuinely baffled. "I haven't gotten my own coffee since..." Her eyebrows knit together like she's trying to do math, and then she decides that's not the most pressing point. "Where's my _coffee_, Castle?"

She looks so bereft, he lets her sweat it a few seconds more, then grins, producing a bag of beans from behind the toaster. "Relax, I have it right here. As if I wouldn't keep you in coffee."She reaches for it, but he holds it at bay. "Tell me you need me," he goads.

"Castle, honestly, give me the coffee." She takes a swing, and he has a morning workout flashback. He holds the bag higher, but lifts his other hand to cover his face.

"Oh. My. God. I'm not going to _punch_ you, Castle!"

"Tell me you need me."

"It's coffee. You're being ridiculous."

"Tell me you need me."

She edges around him, shoving a hip into his upper thigh. The move would have knocked him flat, had he not been braced against the counter. He knows it's only the two inches he has on her while she's barefooted that's allowing him to maintain the advantage, so the next time her arm comes up to swipe at the bag, he closes his free hand around her wrist and holds her there, arm extended over her head. For the second time that morning, her face registers surprise. "Too bad," he tuts. "If only you'd had coffee, your reflexes might be faster."

"The coffee. Unhand it. And me." She gives him her most threatening look, the one he's seen bring far tougher men to their knees, and yet...nah.

"Tell me you need me." She likely has half a dozen moves in her repertoire to free herself, but interestingly (or perhaps mercifully) she doesn't utilize any. She just stares him down, her hip still pressed into his, her breathing once again coming hard and fast, and finally, says... "I need _your coffee."_

"Oh. So close." He dangles the bag in front of her face, and when she reaches with her other hand, he snags that one, too.

"Don't make me hurt you, Castle."

"Don't make me laugh."

Instead, _she_ does. Then, in a quick twist he doesn't see coming, she frees both her hands and spins around him, kicking his left leg out from under him and causing him to pivot a clean 90 degrees. His stomach now pressed into the counter, she locks one leg between his and catches both his hands...and the coffee...behind his back. For a long moment, she presses her full weight against him, pinning him there, before leaning in behind him to speak, still panting, into his ear. "I need you."

She lets him think about that, the length of her body pressed against his, then releases him. When he turns around, he makes a point of rubbing his wrists. "Now how about that coffee."

Somehow, he'd allowed the omelets to burn. Instead, they toast slices of bread and eat them with their coffee in the living room, where the sun warms them enough through the windows to make the fire in the grate unnecessary. Beckett drains her cup and says, "We could hike today."

"Anything other than sparring." She smiles at him. She's been doing that a lot lately, and he's noticed.

"I could teach you that move, you know." He takes her coffee mug from her hands and carries it, along with the rest of their breakfast dishes, to the sink.

"Maybe tomorrow. When I'm not so sore." She raises an eyebrow. "My pride," he clarifies. "It's been mortally wounded."

"Well, when you and your pride want to learn how to execute a defensive maneuver, you let me know."

They spend the rest of the morning walking the perimeter of the nearby lake, and even though she takes her piece, sticking it into the waistband of her jeans in a way that makes his blood run instantly hot, she's all Kate and very little Beckett. He supposes no one else would understand what he means by that, but to him, it's obvious: there's the self she presents on the job-the smart, tough, champion-of-the-victim that he likes to think he understands so well—and then there's this other self, not weaker, not softer, but somehow lighter, more hopeful and willing to take a risk. He imagines this is the Kate everyone saw, back when Johanna Beckett was still alive. He's not sure which part of her he fell in love with first, but it hardly matters: there's not one without the other, and never will be again.

She shows him all her favorite spots around the cabin, telling childhood stories along the way. With her faded jeans and her hair down—literally, she'd never bothered with the blow dryer—she's a cover girl for fresh mountain air. It strikes Castle how young she looks, and then he remembers how young she actually is—given her authority at work, he often forgets—and feels a twinge in his gut. He's never been one to pursue a significantly younger woman, though he's certainly been accused of being the type.

And then he's hit with another blow: _is_ he? Pursuing her?

She looks over her shoulder at him at precisely that moment—pausing midway through an anecdote about a fishing mishap—and he fights the uncanny impression that she's read his thoughts. Instead she says, "I'm boring you, aren't I?" and he laughs easily. He can't imagine anything further from the truth.

They stop beside the lake where she bends to select a flat rock to skim across its surface. "It's all fodder for my tell-all: Kate Beckett, the Woman Behind the Shield," he retorts, and smiles out at the water, following her throw, as she groans.

Later, they eat sandwiches in the kitchen while Kate calls Gates on the landline (their cell phones are nothing more than paperweights out here) for an update.

"Well?" Castle asks, as she returns the clunky phone to its cradle. (Yes, an actual cradle.)

She just shakes her head. "Next time I'm calling Esposito and Ryan, see what they know."

"On the plus side, it's nice to know they're getting nowhere without us," he observes.

Clouds come in in the afternoon, and Castle pokes through the titles on the bookshelf in the living room, finding mostly Louis L'Amour westerns ("My dad's," she tells him) and more predictably, contemporary crime novels. Nothing new, though, he notes.

"I have one new one in there," she says, and he smiles at the familiar dust jacket of Heat Rises, tucked sideways on the top of the shelf. He picks it up, thumbs through it, not really seeing the pages.

"You liked it, right? It was good?" He hopes she realizes he's not asking for a literary assessment, or even fishing for a compliment. What he's really asking for is…approval, maybe?

She smiles, nodding. (Again, with the smiling!) "It was even better on Percocet." She walks over, takes the book from his hands. "I actually read it twice, since I was so loopy on the first read."

"And?"

"Better under the influence of drugs." She's reached her limit; she rolls her eyes. "You know it was the best one yet." She sets it back on the shelf, and sits on the couch across from him. "I like that Nikki turned down the job." She looks into the fire that they've revised in the grate. "I can't imagine her as a lieutenant or a captain."

Castle looks at her, instead. "I can."

She must feel his gaze, but she keeps her eyes trained on the flames. "And I liked that Nikki trusted Rook." She finally lifts her eyes. "It was about time."

He studies her until he's afraid she's going to squirm, then redirects his attention to the bookshelf, where he's discovered a storage cupboard underneath. "Yeah. They're finally partners, by _Rises_."

He busies himself investigating the contents of the shelf, pushing aside a battered Candyland board, silly putty, and a complete collection of Golden books before uncovering a 1980s version of Trivial Pursuit. He digs it out with a flourish, and for the next hour, he positively kicks her ass in Pop Culture (but alarmingly, barely holds his own in Arts and Literature).

They eat a dinner of steaks, wine, and instant mashed potatoes Kate finds at the back of the pantry, and Castle is just unwrapping his chocolate bars for s'mores when the sound of rain begins to ping on the roof. And then pound. They return to the fire, where he instructs her on the perfect marshmallow roasting technique while she tries to ignore him, her face in a worn copy of _M is for Murder_. He sets a perfectly crafted s'more on a plate by her side, and watches her eyes flick to it briefly before returning to the novel. A minute later, though, she's eating it, chocolate sticking to her fingers.

He returns his attention to his newest marshmallow, which is turning a nice golden brown against a backdrop of glowing logs. "A few years ago, Alexis would have loved this," he notes, then immediately amends his statement. "Actually, she'd love it now."

Kate answers him around a mouthful of marshmallow. "I know I'm a broken record, but she's a great kid." He nods. "I'm not sure…" She trails off, and he turns to look at her as his marshmallow catches fire and burns. "I'm not sure she's always convinced _I'm_ that great."

He's not sure how to answer. He wants to offer a platitude, but that'd be an insult to her keen power of observation. "I think she worries about me, sometimes," he says. "She's not used to sharing me."

She gives him an 'oh, please' look. "You've been married twice since you divorced her mother." "But she always came first, before…my job. Not…" He frowns. "I don't know how to explain it. It's just different now." _Different with Kate. _"She notices."

They're edging into dangerous territory. Per usual, he hasn't intended to go there, but now that he's arrived, he's loath to back down. That's her M.O.

In true form, she deflects by changing the subject. Except, curiously, not really: "My therapist says I need to confront things more often."

His first thought is, _therapist?_ but he bites that one back and instead says, "What kinds of things?"

"Memories, mostly." She's tucked her legs up on the couch, and she looks fragile, somehow, hugging her knees to her chest. He wonders how _he_ looks to her, because he certainly feels breakable. "My mom, you know. The shooting."

His chest tightens uncomfortably. It's occurred to him—though only recently, which he accredits to his ego—that when it comes to the shooting, perhaps it's not her fear of confronting her feelings that's been holding her back. Maybe it's a fear of hurting his. The thought fills him with dread, and suddenly, he's not sure he wants to talk about this right now.

"Dr. Burke thinks—" she stops, agitated. "He thinks I'd get over those…you know, incidents, episodes, whatever…faster if I'd deal with the…things I remember."

"The PTSD."

She waves this away as if batting at an irritating fly. "I don't know, Castle. That label…it makes it seem like a big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal." He leans forward, away from the fire and toward her. "When you're taking on a suspect, and you freeze up—" She's shaking her head, but now he's waving _her_ away. "When you can't draw your weapon—" He breaks off, surprised at the way his voice has caught in his throat. "I just…well, I need you not to do that." He takes a breath. She's watching him carefully, poised now as though, once again, ready to run. "I need to know that when you're out there, you're doing your trademarked Detective Beckett, Wonder Woman thing"—she almost smiles—"and if that means talking through some stuff, then…you should."

When he finally shuts up, she's quiet long enough for him worry he's once again overstepped. He listens uncomfortably to the rain assaulting the windows, and then she says, "I know."

She draws a breath. "I'm not good at this, Castle, and I'm going to mess it up, but—" She squares her shoulders. "There's something I need to tell you."


	3. Chapter 3

Kate draws a breath, annoyed with herself when it catches on the way out. "I'm not good at this, Castle, and I'm going to mess it up, but—" She squares her shoulders. "There's something I need to tell you."

She has no idea how she got here so fast; the pace of this conversation she hadn't even intended to have is making her head spin. She's ridiculously reminded of childhood trips in the car, in which she'd fall asleep in the back seat in the city, only to awaken, disoriented, seemingly seconds later in upstate New York. It's this place; sharing it with Castle is…confusing and terrifying and confusingly terrifying.

And also…pretty wonderful.

But they're here now. "It's about that afternoon of the shooting," she begins, and immediately, recognition is all over his face. It confirms her long-time hunch that all along, he's known she knows. The transparency of it all is suddenly obvious, making her feel doubly vulnerable—and sort of childish—but she forges ahead anyway. She knows she's going to do it, she's going to tell him everything, because she trusts him, doesn't she? And as she said, it's about time. "I remember standing at the podium. You were in the front row, with Alexis and Martha, and the sun felt straight above me. And then, it was suddenly in my eyes, blinding me. I saw you—"

The phone rings right between them on the side table, and they both literally jump.

When they recover, neither of them reaches for it, not right away, but it's not a smart phone that can be silenced (or buried underneath a cushion). It's a dinosaur of a contraption that's ringing like it might bounce right out of its cradle, the shrill sound drowning out even the rain. It rings four times before Castle grabs it, eyes still on Kate.

"Castle." He pauses. "Uh, yeah." He listens for a moment, then adds, "You're kidding me," though he sounds less surprised than in a hurry to get off the line. Kate guesses Gates thinks so too, because she can actually hear her reply of "Am I interrupting something, Mr. Castle?" and then there's another break, during which he waits, eyes still on her. "Esposito," he mouths, and then he's nodding again. "Yeah, hey. No we're…we're fine here. Just, yeah. Passing the time." Javier must make some sort of crack about this, because Castle actually flinches before forcing a smile. "Sure," he says, and then, "Will do."

He hangs up the phone, his attention still on her. She looks back at him expectantly, to remind him that it'd be customary for him to impart information at this point.

"They've identified the other key players in the crime ring," he says, but he relays the news like it's an afterthought.

"Great."

"But, ah, they're not moving on them until tomorrow. Something about transporting stolen goods, and wanting to catch them with the evidence. The bust is scheduled to go down in the morning."

"So we could leave after breakfast, getting back into the city after the bust?"

He nods.

"Great," she says again, while he continues to watch her, thinking, undoubtedly, about what she was about to say. The unspoken is so loud in the room, in fact, it feels like a third presence, the anticipation of her confession a hum in the air rising over the sound of the rain.

But she's lost all momentum. It's now as awkward in this cabin as it had been in the precinct on their first days of working together, though admittedly less chilly, and they have another night and morning of this? It's not going to work. She stands abruptly.

His eyes follow her. "Listen," he says swiftly, "about before…"

She's halfway to the kitchen. "If we've got the whole night," she says loudly, over the rain, over the awful hum, "we may need reinforcements." She digs into a drawer and produces a deck of cards, then crosses to the freezer to grab the tequila.

"Kate—"

"Where are those limes?"

Their first few hands of poker, it's obvious he's angry with her. It might be because he's winning: each lost hand results in the customary taste of salt, shot of tequila, and chase of lime, and she's two up on him. He watches her swallow each shot with a grim satisfaction that unnerves her, and after her third, she grumbles that he's entirely too sober. Still with a chip-on-his-shoulder look, he agrees.

She's dealt a straight in the next hand, and knows her luck's about to change. By the time he loses the sixth hand, she's evened things up, and he's smiling at her again. With a tip of his shot glass to their mutual acquaintance Nikki, he shakes the salt onto the inside of Kate's wrist instead of his own, and she laughs instead of pulling back.

His mouth slides over her skin, and in a rush of heat—ha, _heat_—her high instantly doubles. He swallows the tequila, and she deals. She loses the next hand, and returns the favor. She tastes him beneath the salt, the pulse in his wrist pumping under her tongue, and when she lifts her eyes to find him staring, she forgets about the tequila part of the equation. So does he.

She closes her hand around the wrist she's just licked to hold her steady. He's leaning into her, his other hand heavy on her leg. When did that happen? During the salt? She lifts her chin slowly, by half inches, her entire body pulling her, and _oh hell._ She reaches for the back of his neck, drawing him into her to kiss him.

There's only the slightest hint of hesitation in him, and then the hand she's released slides around the back of her head into her hair; the other, on her thigh, tightens. He kisses her back in a way that sends curls of fire along her spine, the alcohol racing in her blood. She opens her mouth against his, and his tongue finds her lower lip, then goes deeper. Desire has her practically crawling into his lap, which actually might not be her best idea, because they both topple, crashing from the couch to the floor. She lands on top of him, where she stares down, smiling, before he draws her back against him. She kisses his neck and ear and the underside of his chin, until he reaches for her face, hand spanning her jaw, and captures her mouth again. She doesn't know how long they're there, making out on the floor, but it's long enough for raw need to burn away most of the alcohol searing her veins. She reaches for her shirt, finds the hem and tugs it up—and his hand curls around hers and stops her.

"Wait." He's breathless, but she's sure of what he'd said.

Still: "What?"

It's dark against the base of the couch, but she can see he looks pained. "We've been partners for years, Kate. If I just wanted you in bed, you'd know it."

It's possibly the most arrogant thing she's heard him say, and that's saying something. She draws her hands back as though they've been burned.

He struggles to sit up, and she makes it easier for him, rolling away in one quick slide. "Right. Guess I forgot who's gracing me with his presence. God's gift, and all that."

"Kate—" She's already on her feet. The quick action sets her head spinning, but she doesn't care. She's leaving. There's no way she's staying here with—

He grabs her—actually grabs her—before she can retreat. "I want more. You know that."

"Let _go_ of me, Castle. Let go, or so help me—" Fury has replaced the desire which replaced the tequila. This night will be the death of her.

"You _know_ it, Kate!"

She stands there, unmoving. She won't admit it, but she's closer to tears than violence.

His voice downgrades from protest to urgency. "You know how I feel. Before…" He flings a glance back at the damned phone. "You were seconds away from admitting to it."

She shakes her head. He carries right on. "You heard me. The day you were shot. You heard me, and you know it. Hell, _I_ know it!"

Breathing. She just needs to be breathing.

"But I'll say it again." She hadn't noticed past her own anger, but he's equally furious. "Do me a favor," he says, his words almost insultingly measured and deliberate, "and try not to pretend you can't hear me." He pauses, as if waiting for her full attention. _"I love you."_

Breathing.

"I do not want you fast and furious on the floor."

Her jaw drops. "If that's all _you_ want, I'm sure you can find a taker or two or ten. Once upon a time, I'd have willingly stood in line. But I'm past that." He stares her down, breathing hard through his nose. "Is that all you want?"

"It's not." Her voice sounds far away, even to herself. "All I want."

He waits, and a familiar spark of panic begins licking at her toes. "Rick, I think you know that I…"

"No," he answers unequivocally. "I don't."

Is it ironic, at this point, that she feels naked, standing before him totally, exasperatingly, clothed? She tries again. "That lately, I've shown you that I…"

"No."

"I'm so afraid that…"

"Getting closer."

She could strangle him with her bare hands. Except that: _"I love you, too."_

It comes out in a rush. The declaration's not a surprise to her, but sounds like it is. Maybe she's just surprised that she's finally said it. That's the way Castle seems to take it. One corner of his mouth twitches, but he fights the gladness back.

"You mean that?"

She makes a sound of exasperation. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. I can barely say it and I _do_ mean it!"

He grabs her by both arms, right up by her shoulders. Maybe he wants to strangle her, too. After a moment of gathering himself, he says, quite anticlimactically, "Ok, then." On second thought, maybe he's just trying to stay upright.

Now that it's out, she feels so light as to be alarmingly adrift. She hears herself going into a free-fall of confession, held in place only by Castle's hands on her arms. "I remember…the shooting. I heard you. I heard you and…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Castle looks at her as if she's handed him a gift that might disappear should he accept it. She'd call him on his sudden lack of bravado, but she's too busy trying to calm her heart in her chest.

"Don't be sorry," he breathes. "I flung it on you. It wasn't fair."

She doesn't know whether he means then, in the cemetery, or now. "I couldn't…I don't know why…" She closes her eyes tightly, opening them when he lifts her head with one hand on her chin.

"We can figure that out later," he says, and then his mouth is on hers again, and it's softer, and slower, and agonizingly gentle. She yields to it with a shudder, floating on the sense of relief that's flooded her. She can hardly believe it, but she might not have ruined this before it could even begin.

She's never felt so _indulgent_. How many times has she itched to skim a hand across the back of Castle's neck, press her face into the collar of his shirt, taste the skin at his temple? The same number of times she's denied herself…until tonight. The boundaries she'd thought protected her had in fact been starving her; she knows that now that she's gorging herself.

She's still afraid. She tells him so, a disclaimer of sorts, as he guides her backward toward the doorway of the bedroom, and falls with her onto the still-unmade bed. "But that has nothing to do with your mother's case, or being emotionally unavailable because of it," he tells her. She stares up at him between kisses that are becoming increasingly urgent, a hand braced against his chest to hold him momentarily at bay. He's got that look in his eye…his theory-spinning look. "It has everything to do with us…and how terrifyingly real this is," he says. Everyone's afraid to mess up something great, Kate. You just don't know that yet, because you've been playing it safe."

_With men I don't love._ She turns this over in her mind, looking for holes in his theory, the process comforting in its familiarity. She decides it's speculation, which means she has some follow up questions. "You know this because…?"

"I've been dangerously in love with you for a long time." He slides his weight on top of her and looks down, his face torn between hunger and mischief.

"What?" she asks suspiciously.

"Just that…this conversation would be perfect if you'd tell me you need proof. Need proof, detective?"

She laughs and kisses him again, reveling in the lingering taste of tequila on his tongue. "I need proof."

"Say it like a cop, and you'll have merged about five fantasies into one."

She slides a leg between his, hooking her ankle around his calf and flipping him over. Sitting on him with both knees locked against his hips, she tries again. "I'm going to need proof, Mr. Castle."

He grins up at her. "I can die happy now."

She'd have guessed there'd be less talking after that, but they're both multi-taskers. Kate continues to straddle him as their hands and mouths explore greedily, her hair falling around his face, his 'proof' an agonizing tease between two layers of denim. Between peeling off his pants and finally unburdening herself of her shirt, she asks breathlessly, "What is it, exactly, you have against the floor?"

His attention is on other tasks, foremost, the zipper of her jeans. "I was making a point." His hands slide under the waistband, cupping her ass before she lifts her weight, shimmying out of the pants. He flips her back over in a tangle of limbs and bare skin, touching her in a deliberate slide of practiced attention. God, he's good. "So I'm to understand," she's forced to pause for breath again, "for future reference, that you have nothing against the floor in a general sense?"

In a sudden need for haste, he's relieved her of her bra, and she's kicked his boxers to the end of the bed. "I had to get your attention," he pants. "I'm overly dramatic, remember? You love that about me."

"Do I?" He's back on top, cradled between her legs. They're both tightly coiled now, their kisses fierce, their hands clumsy. Kate's entire body is singing. In a burst of aggression and impatience, she arches up, drawing him into her.

He inhales in surprise, choking on his reply. "You do," he informs her, and then they're both swept away on his hard and fast rhythm, set with a guttural groan. He's confident, and measured, and skilled, and yes, she's always known this would be amazing, but _this_ amazing? She's biting her lip against her first crashing orgasm within seconds.

It's far from her last.

The sun's well up in the sky when the ringing phone wakes them. "Why is that thing still plugged in?" Kate moans, and Castle makes an _'Mmmmph'_ sound of agreement. She gives it two more rings—half hoping he'll man up and brave the cold to retrieve it—before flinging back the covers and running for it herself. She brings it back to bed—seriously, it's freezing—where she answers with one elbow braced against the pillows. It's Ryan.

"Why are you two not on your way into the city?" he asks. "I tried your cell like, three times." She glances with alarm at the time display on the bedside clock. _Almost ten?_

"Uh, funny story, actually."

This has Castle rousing to a sitting position, where he watches her like he's ready to jump into the game at first opportunity. She wishes he could.

"We're fixing some…leaks, in the roof. From all the rain last night. Did it rain there?" She speaks in a rush.

Ryan, fairly enough, seems thrown by the conversation topic of weather. "Ah, no."

She changes the subject more appropriately to the bust, which, he informs her, Robbery made an hour before. "So you've got the all-clear," he says, then, as though he hadn't quite processed it earlier: "Castle's fixing the roof?"

She looks at Rick when she answers, his chest bare, his hair invitingly disheveled. "As it turns out, he's pretty good with his hands."

Across the bed, he grins at her wickedly.

They both jump in the shower, a time-saving strategy which instead costs them another forty-five minutes, and then hurry to get dressed. While Castle makes coffee, Kate stands in the middle of the bedroom, dripping into a towel and digging through her duffel for anything—anything!—clean. Next to it, Castle's open suitcase taunts her with at least four shirts still pressed and folded at the top, and after glancing back and forth between the two bags several times, she gives into temptation, snagging a white V-neck J. Crew tee. She'll stop off to change when she gets home.

Back in the kitchen, he notices instantly. "Hey. That's mine."

God, he's such a _woman_. "You can't spare it?" There were two more just like it in the bag, in black, and if she wasn't mistaken, periwinkle.

He's eying her appreciatively, so at least there's that. "I can spare it, and I will gladly spare it, but you have to admit it."

She takes the coffee he's holding out and feigns incomprehension. "Admit what, Castle?"

"You didn't pack enough clothes!"

She tries to sound bored. "Can't I just wear this to wear it?"

"Yes, but you're not." "Fine, Castle. I didn't pack my entire closet. Satisfied?"

He frowns at her. "I know it's a victory, but it feels hollow, somehow."

She crosses the kitchen to him, where she snags his hands and guides them to her waist, inviting him to slide them underneath the offending shirt. "Let's see what we can do about that."

They're not on the road until after noon. As soon as they're within cell reception, Castle calls home, and Kate checks in with Gates, who, now that her case is closed, sounds as though Beckett and Castle's predicament has completely slipped her mind. "Just be here when you can be here, Detective," she says, making Kate feel like a pesky child clamoring for attention. She ends the call with a grumble of frustration.

Castle glances over at her, looking serious for the first time all day. "Have you thought about how you'd like to play this?" he asks, delivering the question with a stoical edge that tells her _he_ has. Or has at least worried about it.

She stares out the windshield. "What do _you_ want to do?" His eyes are still on her.

"Defer to you."

She feels a wave of appreciation for him while she considers this. "Honestly, Castle…"

"Preferably, yes."

"I'm tired of duplicity in my life." She's rewarded with a smile that has her stomach twisting pleasantly. "And anyway, who would we be trying to hide this from? A precinct full of _detectives_?"

He agrees. "And my mother. Don't forget about my mother." She laughs, but he's not kidding. "Seriously, I'm going to walk in the door, and she's going to know."

Amazingly, this doesn't terrify her.

"Then we're decided," she says. "Or rather, our arm has been twisted," he agrees cheerfully.

They continue to speed toward the city, the upstate scenery passing by in a blur. They merge onto the Jersey Turnpike by midafternoon, and before she knows it, they're crossing the George Washington Bridge. As they enter Manhattan, she takes one hand off the wheel and rests it, palm up, over the gearshift, smiling as she feels him take it.


End file.
